


Be My Good Boy

by DenaCeleste, Twisted_Mind



Series: Steter Porn Olympics [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Kink Exploration, M/M, Manhandling, Marking, Praise Kink, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5610808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenaCeleste/pseuds/DenaCeleste, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles doesn’t know how he missed the way Peter’s dick is straining against the tight jeans he wears. He stares, transfixed by the way his pale fingers look against the dark-washed denim as he fondles the erection inside. The erection he <b>caused</b>. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>When he meets Peter’s gaze again, the werewolf’s eyes are electric. “You might like being manhandled, but I doubt you understand how much I enjoy a partner who’ll let me toss them around.” </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

> So, I spent my New Year's Eve playing the "what if?" game with Dena, which turned into another accidental collab. And then I went and partied with BelleAmante. It was a good night. And clearly these two are never going to let me stop writing Steter porn, no matter how hard I try. *sigh* 
> 
> This was so much fun, Dena. Thank you for doing this with me.  
> ~Twist

 

Stiles should have remembered who he was dealing with. Peter isn't sweet, oblivious Scott, or huffy, disinterested Derek. Peter is observant, and isn't one to let a weakness escape his notice—not when he can turn it to his advantage instead.

Stiles is at Peter's apartment, poring over books that Peter won't let anyone else know _exist_ , let alone touch. The tome on rune warding is complex, but if Stiles can figure out how to make it work, he can create a series of safe-houses for the pack. Unfortunately, the book is difficult to slog through—eighteenth century grammar makes his brain ache—and Stiles would swear the author was being deliberately vague about the mechanism that actually made the wards _work_.

He closes his eyes and tips his head forward, trying to deep-breathe the headache away. He starts a little when he feels Peter's hand brush across the back of his neck. "Headache?" Peter asks, his voice carefully soft. Stiles grunts out an affirmative noise that turns into a groan when both of Peter's hands settle on his shoulders and begin kneading at the tight muscles there. He strokes firmly up the sides of Stiles's neck, and Stiles can't help the way his body responds to that, going soft in his chair. He knows that Peter's just palpating tense muscle groups, but it _feels_ like the man is massaging his brain and tucking it into bed.

After a few minutes, Peter steps away. Stiles bites his tongue before he can let out a disappointed whine. "Feel better?" he asks, smirking. Stiles nods. Peter can be smug. Stiles can't remember the last time he felt this good without a hand on his dick. Although . . .

He looks at Peter's hands, at the broad palms and thick fingers, the neatly-trimmed nails. He follows them up corded forearms to those ridiculous fucking biceps, and his mouth waters. Just a little. Those arms are strong—not just supernaturally strong, they're tight-with-bands-of-muscle strong. Those are arms that could hold him up effortlessly, hands that could take him apart without the use of claws.

His gaze darts up to Peter's face, but the werewolf doesn't seem to know he's being watched. Maybe he's trying to be polite about the obvious scent of arousal that started when he dealt with Stiles's headache. Maybe Peter's just trying to give Stiles the illusion of some privacy while he forces his dick down.

But looking at Peter's face means that his eyes trail down to Peter's neck, and just. He's wearing a V-neck. Because he's always wearing a V-neck. Because heaven fucking forbid Peter let anyone forget he has the most biteable neck north of the equator. Stiles lets his eyes glide over those shoulders—broad and perfect for clinging to, for scratching up, for throwing his legs over—and down to a chest that would make gods weep.

When he realizes that he's not just staring, but blatantly fantasizing—which is not helping with the tent in his pants—he glances at Peter's face. Peter's giving his I-have-you-by-the-balls-and-you-don't-know-it-yet face.

 _Shit_.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Damn Peter and his vague questions, because _of course_  there are things he can help Stiles with. 

Stiles swallows with an audible click. “Y-yeah, um,” he turns away and sets his hand on the open book, "some of these instructions are a little sparse on details as to how t—”

He breaks off when Peter leans over him, around him, their bodies almost touching. But not quite. 

Stiles can feel his heart take off like a racehorse out the starting gate. Not with fear. Peter looming hasn't inspired fear in a while. He almost wishes they could go back to those days. Times were simpler then.

"I don't think you'll need my help with those, clever boy," Peter breathes the words in his ear, teeth catching against his earlobe. His dick throbs. "I'm fairly certain, however, that there’s another matter which could use my expertise." Peter reaches down to cup Stiles's erection through his jeans. “This, for example. _This_ feels like it could benefit from my assistance.”

Stiles mewls. He isn’t proud of it. But he’s a young man, and there’s an outrageously hot individual with a hand on his junk. He’s only human.

"Wouldn't you agree?" Peter asks, giving a squeeze.

"Yes!" Stiles yelps, giving a full-body shudder at the shock of pleasure from that one simple move.

"Oh, I like that. Are you going to be my good boy, and do what I tell you? I promise you'll enjoy it, if you do." Peter’s voice takes on a lilting cadence, and Stiles’s breath catches.

He wants to be Peter's good boy. He wants it more than he's ever wanted anything. The intensity of it scares him. But not enough to keep him from giving a breathy, "Yes."

"Let's start with what's got you so worked up, then." Peter starts nipping at his jaw, and he unthinkingly tips his head to give Peter more access. The pleased rumble he hears in response goes straight to his groin. "I know it wasn't just having my hands on you."

Oh gods. This is going to be so, so embarrassing. Stiles can feel his cheeks heating. "They're nice hands," he protests. But it's weak. It's so weak. And both he and Peter know it.

"They are," Peter agrees, giving him another firm squeeze. "But if all you wanted was my hands on you, you wouldn't have been ogling my chest while smelling like a whorehouse."

"I’m not, I don't—a _whorehouse_!?" Stiles splutters indignantly. Peter grins against his skin.

"You could rival one for strength of arousal, although you smell much better." Peter feathers his fingers over Stiles's still-clothed cock and breathes deeply. "You’re making no effort to move away from me, your arousal spikes every time I touch you, and even if I weren't a werewolf, I could smell that you're leaking all over your underwear. Be good for me, Stiles. Tell me what you want, what you were thinking of when you eyed me like a starving man eyes a feast."

He closes his eyes, whispers, “It's, you're. I . . .”

Peter drags his hand away from Stiles’s dick, up his torso to cup his throat. He tips Stiles's head back. "Look at me, sweet boy." Stiles reluctantly opens his eyes. “I can't fulfill every dirty fantasy you've ever had if you don't tell me what they are first.”

Stiles whimpers. “It's, you're strong. So much stronger than me.”

Peter cocks his head. “I'm a werewolf.” He says it simply, dismissively. Like it doesn't matter. Like that's not the whole _point_.

Stiles shakes his head. “No, it's . . . you can—and I know I shouldn't want it, it's kinda stupid, I just—”

"Stiles," Peter interrupts. His voice is low, on the edge of becoming a growl, and his eyes are glittering. "Stop making excuses and insulting yourself. Tell me."

Stiles shakes off Peter's hand, his shoulders hunching. “You know what? Never mind. It's not important.” He gets up and starts heading for where he left his backpack and shoes.

Peter stops him before he makes it three steps, catching him by the arm and spinning him around. His dick gives another little spurt in his boxers, and he can tell the second Peter notices. God, he hates being around werewolves. He opens his mouth to speak, but Peter claps a hand over his face before he gets the chance.

“We're going to go to my bedroom, Stiles. You can be sweet for me, and wrap your legs around my waist so I can kiss you on the way there, or we can do this the hard way. Your choice.”

Peter pulls his hand away, and Stiles licks his lips. He knows—down in his guts, _knows_ —that one word and Peter will let him walk away. He still can.

But when he thinks about what Peter's offering, he can't make himself. He _can't_. His heart is trying to beat right out of his chest as he steps close to Peter, as he wraps his arms around those shoulders and awkwardly hitches one leg over Peter's hip. He squeaks when Peter cups a hand under his thigh, hoisting him up. He brings the other leg up around Peter and hooks his ankles together. He's never been this hard, or this embarrassed.

Before he can consider trying to pull away, Peter kisses the exposed slope where his neck meets his shoulder. "That's my sweet boy," he murmurs. 

And Stiles, just . . . he trembles a little. So Peter does it again, kissing and sucking at his throat and shoulder. He's going to have a mess of hickeys and stubble burn, but he can't care.

When Peter sets him down in the bedroom, though, he can’t meet Peter’s eyes. Peter pulls him close again. “There’s nothing wrong with liking to be manhandled.”

Stiles pulls back so Peter can _see_ the epic eye roll he gives that. He meeps when Peter suddenly grabs his wrist and presses his hand against Peter’s groin. The older man is so, so hard. Stiles doesn’t know how he missed the way Peter’s dick is straining against the tight jeans he wears. He stares, transfixed by the way his pale fingers look against the dark-washed denim as he fondles the erection inside. The erection he _caused_.

When he meets Peter’s gaze again, the werewolf’s eyes are electric. “You might like being manhandled, but I doubt you understand how much I enjoy a partner who’ll let me toss them around.”

Stiles thinks for a second before deciding _fuck it_. Go big or go home. “How do you feel about a partner who wants you hold them up while you bang them against the wall?”

Peter’s expression can only be described as feral. “I’ll do you one better, sweet boy.”

Stiles’s mouth goes dry. Better than wall-sex? “How?”

“Get undressed, and I’ll show you.”

Stiles is so focussed on what could be better than wall-sex that he forgets to be self-conscious. He’s naked in record time, and jittering with anticipation. He looks expectantly at Peter, who’s naked except for a pair of boxer-briefs that he’s tenting obscenely. “ _Well_?”

Peter stalks over, and slides his hands possessively over Stiles’s ass before continuing down. He jerks Stiles up, back into the position from before, but this time their front-facing piggy-back is made a lot more interesting by the mutual lack of clothes. “Like this,” Peter says simply.

It takes a couple seconds for the meaning of that to sink in. “You mean—can you hold me up like this the whole time?” Stiles tries to control his reaction to that thought, but.

“Easily.” And then Peter grinds his dick against where Stiles is spread open around him, and just. Stiles needs that in him, just like this. He didn’t know _how much_ he needed that, but it turns out that it’s vital to his continued existence.

Peter chuckles, and Stiles doesn’t even care that apparently he said all of that out loud. Because Peter’s setting him down on the edge of the bed and fishing lube out of the bedside table, and Stiles is one-hundred percent on-board with this. He expects Peter to immediately start stretching him out and slicking him up. He’s desperate enough that he’d appreciate it.

Instead, Peter kneels on the floor and starts sucking up dark marks on the insides of his thighs. “You’ll be mine, you know.”

That kind of possessiveness should not thrill him. It shouldn’t. It _doesn’t_. He is clearly confusing the application of a hot mouth to sensitive skin for feelings. So he whines, wanting Peter to get on with it.

He’s not prepared for Peter to start suckling at the head of his dick while simultaneously probing at his ass with slippery fingers. Peter’s flicking the tip of his tongue over Stiles’s frenulum, and it’s so good. Combined with the pressure of Peter’s finger inside him, it might be enough to make him come. His control is shaky at best right now. “Ugh, come on, Peter. Gimme more.”

Peter hums a dissenting noise around his cock. Stiles sees double for a second.

But two can play that game. “Peter, wanna come with you in me, not in your mouth.”

Peter pops off long enough to tell him, “I wouldn’t mind,” and then goes right back to what he was doing.

Time for drastic measures, then. Stiles rolls his hips down, into Peter’s hand. “C’mon, Peter. I usually start with two when I’m fucking myself. I can take it.”

Peter pulls off his dick slowly, looking pissed about it. He glares at Stiles as he forces a second finger in to join the first. “But my fingers are so much thicker than yours, sweet boy.”

Stiles fights not to groan happily at the way Peter grazes his prostate. “Mm, true. But who says I only fuck myself on my fingers?” He smirks at the way Peter’s jaw tightens in response.

“I was going to suck your pretty cock ‘til you came, and then work you open slowly. There a reason you’re hell-bent on not letting me do that?” Peter’s voice is sharp, and Stiles swallows reflexively.

“I—it’s just. I want what you promised. And I’ll be too out of it after coming to enjoy it.”

Peter’s eyes narrow, but he nods. “Fine. I’ll give you what you want, but only if you stop being a brat. You told me you were going to be my good boy.”

“I never said that,” Stiles protests immediately. His heart stutters.

“That’s not how I remember it.”

Stiles feels a little bit of fear start to cut through. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, but nothing comes out. He won’t apologize. He _won’t_. He has nothing to be sorry for.

Peter interrupts before the turmoil reaches critical mass. He cups Stiles’s cheek and kisses him softly. “Come on, Stiles. You were so sweet for me earlier. Say you’ll be my good boy.”

His lungs don’t want to work, but he chokes out, “Yes,” anyway. Peter hasn’t retreated any.

“Yes, what, baby?” Peter whispers against his mouth.

“I-I’ll be good. For you.”

Peter hums. “Not quite what I wanted to hear, but it’ll do. For now, anyway.”

And then Peter is kissing him before he can worry about what “for now” means. He gets a little lost in it, in the slide of their tongues and the gentle nips of Peter’s teeth, so he gasps when Peter flexes the fingers that are still buried in him.

“Lie back, baby.” Peter pushes him down with a hand on his chest. “I’ve got some work to do if I’m going to fit inside your gorgeous body.” He promptly starts scissoring his fingers, working the muscle open.

“I’ve taken toys before,” Stiles mumbles. Though that does raise the question: how big _is_ Peter, anyway?

“That’s good to know. I bet you looked so pretty fucking yourself, desperate to be filled up.” Peter pulls his fingers out, slicks them up again, and then nudges three inside Stiles. “And you _are_ desperate to be filled, aren’t you darling? You’re taking my fingers so perfectly, letting me pull you apart until you’re all soft and wet for me.”

He whimpers a little as Peter works him over until he feels slutty and desperate, but tries to keep quiet. To be good. He’s trembling when Peter finally slides his fingers free, but he’s glad for the prep when Peter shucks his underwear and slicks his cock with the lube leftover on his fingers. Peter’s . . . on the big side. Not enormous, not scary-big, but Stiles is going to feel this tomorrow.

“Come here, little one.” Stiles makes a face at the pet name, but takes the hand Peter holds out for him, and gets to his feet. “Put your hands on my shoulders, and then I want you to jump up and wrap those long legs around me.”

He gets a little quiver in his belly when he does and Peter just . . . catches him. No bracing or effort required. Peter’s got one hand under his thigh, and the other supporting his lower back. Stiles squirms, trying to get the angle right, but Peter’s grip tightens. “No.”

Stiles licks his lips, and ducks his head a little. “No?” He gives a little wiggle. “This feels like ‘yes’.”

Peter tips his head. “Perhaps ‘stop that’ would have been more appropriate, then,” he concedes. And then Peter’s lifting him up a little further before lowering him down—and onto Peter’s cock. Stiles starts panting, feeling the way he’s sucking the head of Peter’s dick inside him. He wants the rest of it, but he can only watch helplessly as the muscles in Peter’s shoulders bulge and the tendons in his neck stand out while he eases into Stiles at an agonizingly slow pace.

When Peter’s fully seated, Stiles moans and starts squirming, _needing_ him to move. He tries to rock his hips, to pull himself up using Peter’s shoulders, but he’s got no leverage. He tries harder to bounce, to create the friction they both need, and he’s so frustrated when he can’t that he starts to claw at Peter’s shoulders.

Stiles stills when he hears—and feels—the growl rumble through Peter’s chest. "Stiles."

"Please, I, I need—”

"Stiles, stop." At that, Stiles pulls back a little—only a little, because he can't go far—to look at Peter with big, desperate eyes. "Let me."

"Let you what?"

"Let me give you what you need."

Stiles wishes he could pretend those words don't affect him, but there's no way to hide the shiver that races down his spine, making his back arch, or the way he spasms and clenches around Peter’s cock. His cheeks flush, so he hides against the side of Peter’s neck, whispering, Okay."

Without movement, without the wet slide of Peter in and out of his body, Stiles can feel the syncopated beat of their hearts where they're connected. The heat under his skin builds into a burn, a firestorm of pleasure waiting to explode. It’s right there, his for the taking if he reaches for it, but Peter wants him to wait, to let _him_ give Stiles what he needs. So he waits, dangling on the edge of too much and not enough.

And when Peter moves, he does exactly as he promised. His arms cradle Stiles close, make him feel small and safe, as Peter starts to bounce him ever-so-gently on his cock. Stiles can feel his legs tremble where they're locked around Peter's hips, and he clutches at broad shoulders as he wheezes. For such a small movement, it's so much. Even though he's the one being broken open and filled, even though it's someone else nestled inside his body, he feels like he's drowning. There's nothing but Peter—Peter’s hot skin under his hands and pressed against him on all sides, Peter's breath against his neck, Peter's heartbeat—still slower and more even than his, even now—pressed against his chest, Peter's strength holding him up while tenderly fucking him apart.

It's not his fault if his eyes sting.

He mouths at Peter's neck, tasting the salt of the wolf's sweat, not that there's much. It mixes with the salt of his own. Because he's not crying. Even though he's being taken apart bit by bit.

His pre-come smears between them, trapped between their bellies, and it's perfect. Everything is too much now, and even though Stiles doesn't want it to end, he chases his orgasm. But Peter doesn't speed up, though he can certainly tell Stiles is close—instead, he slows down.

Stiles lets out a growl of his own, though it comes out as more of a whine.

"Shh, sweet boy," Peter murmurs. "I told you: let me give you what you need."

So Stiles gives up, accepts that as much as he wants to come, he wants this just as much, and lets Peter take care of him. Lets Peter whisper “that’s it, sweet boy” in his ear and keep him on the edge of orgasm with this deep, slow fucking until he can barely hold on, his limbs gone weak with pleasure. Until the space between them is drenched with sweat and pre-come, and Peter will smell like Stiles for at _least_ a week no matter how much he showers. Until finally, one inward nudge is too much—too full, too good, too long, too Peter—and he comes with little hiccupping sobs against Peter's skin.

But even though he's strung out, ecstatic and flying high on what Peter's done to him, it's not enough. It's not complete. Peter needs to come, too. Stiles wants to be marked from the inside out, wants Peter's scent to tell everyone "he's mine".

"Please," he gasps. Peter shushes him, doesn't seem to understand. "Peter, need—you need—want—”

The sound of the blood pounding in his ears isn't much different from Peter's shushing, and his skin is still tingling so much that he doesn't register movement until his stomach gives a swoop as he's pressed onto something soft. Peter's put him down, but he stays right there so his weight keeps Stiles grounded and safe, even as the rest of him still soars.

He's relieved when he realizes that Peter's only laid him down to take his pleasure from Stiles's spent, oversensitive body. His thrusts are quick, erratic—and deliciously wild. But Stiles doesn't mind the rough usage, not when Peter has been so good to him. Not when it means he’ll have proof that this was real tomorrow.

Stiles moans when Peter's cock thickens before emptying inside him. He can't really feel the rush of come, but the look on Peter's face—something close to rapture—more than makes up for it. When Peter goes to pull out, he can't help the little whimper he makes. Peter looks at him for a moment before nodding to himself, and settling over Stiles again—keeping his softening cock inside the clutch of Stiles's body.

"Such a good boy for me, Stiles, you were so good." Peter drops little kisses across his face, down over his neck, and finally over his heart. "Letting me take care of you, just like you always should."

Stiles flushes at the praise, feels butterflies swarm in his stomach and his skin tighten. He kisses Peter to make it stop, to distract Peter from the way hearing that makes him feel, but Peter knows. Of course he does.

Peter is never one to let a weakness escape his notice.

 

 


End file.
